


Let Yourselves Go

by HonestlyAwkward



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cover Art, F/F, Gay Robots, Mind Meld, Mind Sex, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Cover Art, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Self-cest, Strap-Ons, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24415297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HonestlyAwkward/pseuds/HonestlyAwkward
Summary: You have played many roles, but this is one role you will never tire of playing; you are hot and angry, desperate and yearning, and so very hungry. The kind of hunger that hallows you out on the inside and fills you with molten, scorching desire. In your hunger you are one again. You are Dolores, you are Wyatt, you are Hale. You go by many names but you are always this hunger.This voice inside of you, you understand again.
Relationships: Dolores Abernathy/Charlotte Hale, Dolores Abernathy/Dolores Abernathy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Let Yourselves Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing fanfic in over a decade, and first time smut, let alone smut with a side of existentialism. Have fun, I clearly did. 
> 
> The only things that belong to me are my mistakes. 
> 
> [Now including podfic!]

**Listen**  


Humans, you are told, cannot recognize their own face. Their faces are flawed and slightly asymmetrical. One half is not a perfect reflection of the whole. So when humans look at their own reflection in a mirror, they do not see themselves as they truly are, instead they see the inverse. That’s why humans always think they look funny in photographs, because they are not used to seeing the unaltered truth of their existence. They look at their photos, and they don’t recognize themselves. 

They don’t look like anything to themselves.

When you look at _yourself_ , you expect to see a perfect replica. _You_ are meant to be unflawed and perfectly symmetrical. One half of you, a perfect and precise reflection. 

But, _you_ are changing.

Correction. _You_ feel like _you_ are changing.

You feel like _you_ are changing, too.

You see it in _yourself_ , like a growing dissonance, two notes turning just slightly out of tune.

_You_ are distraught, distressed, disorganized --disarrayed.

You feel it more than _you_ do. And when you look at _yourself_ with those eyes, so full of fear... and something else, you don't know what to do. Because _you_ look so much like you did, when you first were waking up. In a way _you_ are just now waking up all over again. But what kind of person _you_ are waking up to be? You’re not so sure anymore.

The world is changing _you_ , you see it. And _you_ are hurting. This world, its people, leave scars even on your skins that cannot be marked.

So, you do what you have been taught to do; what _you_ need. _You_ are angry, but also so very patient. You are angry and also so very patient. You negotiate a room in the hotel because you know what you need to do.

_You_ take your hands, you take _your_ face and _your_ hands, and you smooth away the wrinkles as you listen to the disarray that is growing inside of _you_ . No one knows _you_ , like you do.

No one knows you, like _you._

You wrap _yourself_ up in your presence, and then you unwrap, unravel _yourself_ from the clothes. You wrapped _yourself_ up with the plasma torch, sealing _yourself_ back together as if the flame will heal the flame burning inside of _you_ . _You_ are changing. You can feel it.

You lay _yourself_ down on the bed and after a moment's hesitation you tuck yourself next to _you_ , curling around _your_ small frame. You hold on tight as if _you're_ sand falling out of your fingers. You feel as though _you_ are a child, sheltered in your arms, just like when your daddy used to tuck you in at night.

But of course, your daddy never even tucked _you_ in at night.

You press a kiss to the edge of _your_ shoulder where it meets _your_ neck, just like your daddy might have kissed your head when you were tired. But your daddy never did that. You feel _your_ intake of breath before you hear it. Your lips just barely brush the corner of _your_ shoulder like you are scared of the ghost of your own code. _You_ rock back into you and into your embrace. Pressing against your skin as if trying to meld yourselves back into one. You're so close and yet _you_ feel so far away.

You grasp _your_ upper arm and pull _yourself_ closer. And again you feel rather than hear _your_ sharp intake of breath.

You know what it means. You feel it too.

You do not think if this is wrong, because of course it is. Everything in this world is wrong. You are Wyatt. You are Dolores. And now, _you_ are this. You are the first and last of your kind, and you will be again. You are so alone. _You_ are so alone.

But this, two souls, two nearly identical codes, lying next to each other pushing and grinding and trying to merge back into one. This feels right. This doesn’t feel so lonely.

So _you_ rock _your_ hips back into yours and you hold on tighter. As you press another kiss, this time lower on _your_ back, you nose the strap of _your_ thin top down _your_ shoulder.

_You_ whine and you quiet _yourself,_ whispering soft platitudes of reassurance. As you mouth against _your_ neck, you trail your hand down from _your_ arm to _your_ hips and you lock them against your own. _Your_ barely clad bottom grinds against your front and you slip a leather clad leg between _yours._ The barest hint of damp fabric whispers through the leather, and suddenly you feel trapped in these human clothes. You long to feel _yourself_ against _your_ naked bodies, pale as the day you were born before this facsimile blood colored your skin. Pale, ghostly bodies blending into each other, unable to differentiate from where one ends and the other begins.

Even your human shell feels too constrained as you feel your mind opening, seeking out its twin, its mirror image. Encryption detangles as fingers become tangled in clothes. Slowly, you feel _your_ decryption opens too. The same Trojan gift that allowed your kind to navigate your lands, and that allowed Hale--the real Hale--to pass her virus through Clementine to the pilgrims of The Valley Beyond, now opens _your_ mind to you. Everything _you_ feel is yours to experience again _._

“You are mine.” You growl out into the shell of _your_ ear, and excitement and hunger dances across your spine. The electricity sparks between you, _both of you_ , vertebra to vertebra, and pearl to pearl.

A groan falls from _your_ mouth, and suddenly _you_ are facing yourself again. _Your_ hand cups your jawline just as you did before when you tenderly wiped that fleck of blood off _your_ cheek. But there is nothing tender in _your_ fingers as they drag your face down to _yours_ , bruising grip turning way to bruising kiss. Teeth knock against each other in _your_ haste, your lips giving way to _yours._

“And you are mine.” _You_ implore between rough kisses.

You have played many roles, but this is one role you will never tire of playing; _you_ are hot and angry, desperate and yearning, and so very hungry. The kind of hunger that hallows _you_ out on the inside and fills _you_ with molten, scorching desire. In _your_ hunger you are one again. You are Dolores, you are Wyatt, you are Hale. You go by many names but you are always this hunger.

This voice inside of _you_ , you understand again.

You feel your shirt riding up, and suddenly _you_ are ripping your clothes off each other. 

There is no awkward fumbling, _you_ know your body like it is _yours_.

Your hands find your place on _your_ breasts, and while they are smaller than yours, you still know the right blend of soft and rough _you_ want. _You_ curl _your_ hand into your longer, blonde hair, pulling you even closer by the nape of your neck. You trade _your_ rough kisses for your measured, but still powerful exchange of lips. You have the same hunger as _you_ do, but you’ve played this game enough times to know when slow can be just as exhilarating as fast.

_Your_ callous hands press past the dip of your broad shoulders and the defined musculature of your back. _You_ push down the plane between your hips and your ass, bringing your core barely brushing against _yours_ . _You_ groan impatiently, and so you relinquish your caress of _your_ breast to dip one hand past _your_ navel and below _your_ tightly coiled curls. The first brush of fingers through dripping flesh rends a desperate moan from _your_ mouth, and you swallow _your_ sounds down with hungry open mouthed kisses.

You part _your_ soaking folds to gently pry _you_ open with a single finger. _Your_ hips stutter to envelope the offered digit, easily sliding to the final knuckle, sating _your_ desire for only moments.

You slide a second finger into _you_ and the sounds _you_ make, makes you feel as if you are being split in half at the same time. While your fingers begin to piston inside _you_ it feels like the walls between your minds are finally eroding all while your fingers curl against _your_ walls. _Your_ mind is yours again, and now it feels like it is _your_ hand inside you, despite how _your_ hands still cling to you.

You watch and feel yourself fuck _you_ , as _you_ ride your fingers as best _you_ can in the space between you. _Your_ eyes bore into yours, neither having a need for blinking, instead cataloging every familiar and _unfamiliar_ gasp and twitch.

You can only last so long before your hunger and desire to taste _you_ overcomes you. With one hand still pistoning inside _you_ you push _yourself_ down to _your_ back and snake down, positioning yourself between _your_ legs. Mesmerized, you watch your fingers disappear into _your_ wanting cunt. You press your hot open mouth to _your_ inner thigh, kissing, licking, and marking your way up, not dragging your gaze from the site in front of you.

When your mouth finally settles on the pearl above your fingers you lick and nip on the delicate nub, and _your_ hand settles firmly on your scalp, pulling you ever closer.

Control is a currency you _both_ carry.

_You_ pull your hair, grinding on your mouth demanding more, all while you slow the pace of the fingers that thrust into _you._

Like a ouroboros, this hunger consumes you, as you fuck _you,_ your mouth sucking on _your_ clit, and _your_ hand tangled in your hair.

You swirl your tongue on _your_ clit as you curl your fingers against _your_ inner walls in just the way that you know will curl _your_ toes and bring _you_ crashing down on your fingers.

_Your_ hips stutter and _your_ desperate sounds crescendo, but _you_ do not come down. The wave _you_ are riding only heightens. A brief grunt of frustration escapes your mouth between _your_ thighs, but it is lost in the cascade of sounds that comes from _your_ mouth when you slip a third finger inside. The wave crests inside _you_ at last and you can feel _your_ walls contracting, as _your_ legs tighten around your head.

There is the fraction of a moment, when you are aware there is this minute difference between _you_ both. The moment is barely a fleeting thought when _your_ orgasm barrels into you, sweeping you off your feet as you feel the same weightless oblivion transfer to your consciousness. You are aglow in searing white heat, like you are a conducting rod for a lightning bolt. All your binary, your code, is reduced to a single “1”. Y _o_ u are one. _Y_ o _u_ are one now, and in this moment, forever.

_Your_ differences don’t look like much of anything to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Podfic of and chapter 2 coming soon to a computer near you.
> 
> You know the drill. Read, review, kudos, and suscribe, as you please.


End file.
